Best Mistakes
by LondonBelow
Summary: postRENT, Collins reflects on a love before Angel and the results of not being quite careful enough. COMPLETE!
1. After Angel, and Before

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters. ("Catch, Roger!")

Angel liked church. I never understood _why_, since the closest she ever came to saying a word about believing any of it was more like a belief in the collective unconscious. Sometimes I go to church now and I sit in the back and watch people. I try to see through Angel's eyes.

Visiting the church makes me feel worse. I walk home with my hands in my pockets, head bowed, stomping towards wherever 'home' happens to be at the moment. I always wonder if maybe, if I believed, I could feel some peace with her. All I feel is angry that I didn't get even a year with her.

Pain, of course. There is pain.

There's pain and anger and the fact that I'm such a fucking cliché! They make up this… this stages of death crap like it'll be easier because it makes sense, like you won't want to die and you won't hate your friends and you won't think these horrible things, like would she still be alive if.

Then it washes away. All that remains is a hollow shell, waiting for the memories to flood.

When I was eight years old, my parents took me upstate to a Renaissance Faire. That was great. There were fencing lessons, handicrafts, jousts and monkey's tails. Gypsy dancers spun and spun, dazzling my eyes with the gold-painted coins sewn onto their clothing. I won a painted ocarina in a literal rat race and watched a maypole dance.

The Renaissance Faire prepared me for high school by educating me on the many different, foreign words for sausages, like bangers and bratwurst. It's a lot less painful to be teased when you can out-tease yourself to your teasers. There's also a food called 'sin on a stick'. It's delicious.

In the gypsy camp at the Faire, I visited a fortune teller. Just for fun, right? But she held my palm and found my 'life line', and she looked at me, a wrinkled white woman with goopy black lines around her eyes, and touched my hand with her dry skin.

"I have never seen this before," she said, her eyes moving rapidly. "Your life line is broken in four places."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I do not know."

I had nightmares for years.

Later, I would attribute my habit of going for younger men to that. Fear of death seemed logical enough justification for a sexual relationship with someone "obscenely younger". It helped my parents accept me, though. Mom would invite over as many homosexual males as she knew who were around my age, even a little older. I never ducked below the age of consent. _That_ was disgusting.

But sometimes my significant other of the moment would sit in on my classes. It's obscene how attractive I found that.

Hey, I'm a professor but I'm still human. I'm not a decrepit monkey skeleton. I like sex. I like kink.

Once, I made a mistake. It wasn't a mistake. I was supposed to call it a mistake, but I don't regret it. Could've ruined my life...

I had been teaching for a while. I had never done something quite so blatantly against the rules, but it never _felt_ against the rules. A student sat in my class illuminated like a mote of dust, talking back with Roethke and Hughes and Whitman by heart. Some students don't belongs with other students. This one befriended faculty, would go out with us in groups on Fridays. Somestudents don't belong with other students, and students like that fit in easily with teachers.

It started as a more intimate friendship. We would walk together. We would talk. My romantic idealist laughed open-mouthed and clapped when laughing wasn't enough. This wasn't a child, but an adult who chose to be young and chose to be happy, not unlike Angel.

I wasn't infected then. And I wasn't careful. We figured, we had both had tests, both clean. A condom was enough.

We worried about disease, and we took what we considered adequeate precautions. That, in the end, was the mistake that wasn't a mistake, not the relationship with the student. Things happen to a person's body, during sex but also after.

Tired of thinking about Angel, tired of the senseless pain of missing her, I roll out of bed and stumble to the phone.

The condom broke. We were lucky. The problem wasn't disease.

"Hello?"

"Hey, baby."

"Thomas!"

"Mhm."

"How are you?"

"All right."

Not disease.

"So when are you coming to visit us?"

Not disease.

"How about this Saturday?"

Pregnancy.

_To be continued!_

Nice cliff-hanger, eh? It will be explained later why Collins was with a girl, this was just an introduction.

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	2. Ariel and Harper

Note: There are OCs in this chapter... you knew there would be. I tried to keep them fairly realistic. If the woman is a little too cookie-cutter, bear in mind that she's only present for about two minutes.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

When the door opens, an intense sense of nervousness slides away. I step into the apartment. "Hey, Thomas." Other than Roger, she's the only person who gets to call me that.

She hugs me.

I hug her.

"How've you been?" she asks, locking the door behind me. Apparently the teenage menaces still live two floors down.

"I've been fine." I doff my coat and hang it in the closet. "How are you?" I take a good look at her, how she looks when her face isn't alight with glee. She's pale and thin. "You look ill."

She laughs. "You chose the week after new year," she says, and I am immediately relieved. _Right._ Not that I actually knew when Rosh Hosannah was this year.

"So the two of you…?"

"Are managing perfectly. Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes. Why don't you go visit your kid for a while?"

"You eat dinner at eight-thirty?" I ask. I suppose as long as they don't have a bottle of beer for dinner like Mark and Roger do… It's fine for Mark and Roger. It's fine for me. I just don't want my kid drinking beer. Yet.

She laughs again, this time at me. "When you promise to show up at eight, yes."

I laugh in return, then head to the door on the eastern-facing wall. I don't knock, just open the door and step in. Legos provide a veritable obstacle course across the floor, especially since I am attempting to creep. The kid sits at his desk, head-bopping and singing along to a song I know too well.

I peer at the homework assignment on the desk.

_…Thank you for talking to our class. Your a lot funner to listen to than Miss Walker. I learnt a lot from you about writing and also about the 1960s. Yours Sinseerly, Harper_

"'Funner' isn't a word," I say.

Harper jumps and turns. When he sees me, he grins. "Daddy!" He's out of his chair swiftly. You know the real reason parents carry their kids so much? You ever had an eighty-pound weight around your neck? So I pick him up.

"Hey, Harper." I kiss his forehead. "I missed you."

He blinks at me. Harper's got his mother's hazel eyes. Uncanny as they were when she watched me in class, seeing that same look in a seven-year-old is disconcerting. "Where've you _been_?" he asks. "Mom said you were teaching in Ohio."

"Your mom's right," I tell him. I was at Oberlin, exchanging the occasional telephone call with the boys and Harper's mother. "I needed to get out the city."

"How come?" Harper demands.

"Uh… a couple friends of mine passed away last year and I needed to sort some things out."

I tried to stay around long enough to help Roger establish himself again, but in the end it was just a matter of too many tragedies, too many drive-bys, too many pile-ups. And when Roger bounced back, I just couldn't. First Angel, then Mimi. Seemed like everyone was dying. I couldn't get my head around it.

"Oh. Sorry 'bout your friends," Harper said. "You're back for a while now?" he asks, and I know the answer he wants to hear.

I nod. "You bet." Now that he's released me, I set him down on the ground. "So, why don't we work on your homework until dinner's ready?"

"I already did it," Harper announces.

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. It's eight-thirty." Apparently that has a connotation I am unaware of. "Mom says if you were a clock you'd only be right twice a day."

"Yeah well you can tell your mom I'm on JST."

Harper wrinkles his nose. I realize then that he's craning his neck to look at me, and I sit on the floor to be level with him. Never shy, even on a bet, Harper settles on my lap. "What's JST?" he asks.

"JST is Jewish Standard Time," I explain. "It's a little bit racist. Just a bit. Nicely," I add. He probably doesn't understand that: he's only seven years old. I should have thought of that before saying 'JST'. That's my little joke with Ariel, from before I 'knocked her up', when she showed up late to lecture.

"Did you like Ohio more than New York?" Harper asks.

"I don't think so."

"What about Boston?"

I chuckle. " Cambridge, actually. And no, I didn't. I don't think I could like anywhere more than I like New York."

"Why not?" Harper asks.

"Because my whole life is in New York. You and your mom are here, and my friends are here. So what are you learning in school?" I ask.

Harper pulls a face. "Nothing," he decrees. "I can already read and add. They make us do this nutrition notebook, it's the dumbest thing in the world. Are you going to stay in New York for a while?"

He makes me smile. "I already told you I would."

"I know," he says, "but I miss you when you're gone."

"I miss you, too, Harper."

"Then stay here," he says. "You can live with us. I bet Mom wouldn't mind. You could stay in my room!"

I can't help but grin at that. Sooner or later, I suppose, he'll learn the way things go between men and women, and I wonder if he'll still want me around then. And when he learns the way of things between two men? What then?

But now he doesn't know, and he's just an innocent kid.

_To be continued!_

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	3. The Talk

**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's now "owned" by a film studio

"Harper, go brush your teeth and get ready for bed."

"I'm not _tired_," Harper whines. He wriggles, suppressing a yawn.

"Harper," Collins says. He hasn't been around the child often, but years of teaching led to the development of certain tones, among them the 'you are trying my patience'. Luckily most of Collins' retributive habits are designed to amuse and humiliate ("No walking in my classroom. Hop." "That goes on the Board of Brilliance," followed by a particularly dull quote being written under the heading "Best and Brightest". "Write 'I will not be an asshole' 427 times." "Bring a potato to class.") so the tone sounds more amused than angry.

Harper grumbles, but he goes.

Ariel stands and begins clearing the table. Collins tries to help. Within half a moment they bump into each other. "Sorry," he says.

"'S fine," Ariel assures him. The second time, when he is blushing beyond apology, she says, "Why don't you put the leftovers in Tupperwares?" and hands him a plate of ropa vieja.

Water runs in the bathroom: Harper is brushing his teeth.

"So how've you been?" Ariel asks.

Collins shrugs. "Fine."

"How is he? Or she?"

"Who?"

It is Ariel's turn to shrug. "Last time you came around, you had that smile. And you smelled a bit like cheap perfume."

"Oh." He hadn't smelled like cheap perfume. Collins feels his jaw tighten. He had smelled like Angel. "He…" what? Died. But he doesn't want to say that to her, this woman, this practical stranger despite everything that has passed between them. She won't understand.

Ariel turns away from the sink. Without requesting further information, she puts her arms around him and holds him. She says nothing, just holds him, and for what feels like a long moment Collins lets his shoulders slump and buries his face in her neck. He had been so young when he met her, probably younger than she was now. Around Ariel, he regressed to that age easily.

When he pulls away, he wipes his eyes like there is a bug bothering him. Ariel returns to washing the dishes.

Recovered, Collins reaches into his pocket. "Ari…" he says. He doesn't know what else to say, just thrusts a handful of bills at Ariel.

She shakes her head and pushes his hand away. "We're fine," she says. When Collins tries again with attempted soothing inanities, Ariel pushes him away less gently. "I don't want your money," she snaps. She dries her hands, hurls down the towel and begins putting away that morning's dishes to make room for the evening's.

"Ariel--" He steps towards her and touches her shoulder.

Ariel jumps back. "_Drop it_, Thomas."

"I'm trying to do something for you and Harper!"

"Harper doesn't need _money_! Harper has clothes and food and books and toys, he has everything a seven-year-old boy needs, financially. If you want to do something for your son, then come by more often. Let him spend time with you. And save your money." The fire drains out of her. "I've heard they're developed new drugs…" she murmurs.

Collins steps away. He pockets the money and leans against the counter, watching her. She stares right back, the same way she stared when she was his student.

Ariel was in Collins' class for two weeks, then she had to drop it. The workload was too much, a pleasure class in addition to her other classes. She was going to be a lawyer. She didn't know that she would drop it, though, that third day when he asked softly if he could see her after class, when her face burned and she stared back at him at tears swept across her cheeks.

He hadn't kicked her out of class, though. She was still crying. If he was going to kick her out, he wouldn't do it while she was crying. He had just told her that she was doing fine, that her acceptance to this school was impressive enough and she didn't have anything to prove.

He would regret that later, when he learned what a spitfire she was.

"Daddy?"

Harper stands in the doorway to his room wearing flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt with a train on it.

"Yeah, Harper?"

Harper sticks out his lower lip slightly and holds up his arms. "Will you tuck me in?" he asks.

Collins glances at Ariel, who gives him no sign. She's still angry. "You bet," Collins says. "Come on." He lifts Harper and carries him into the bedroom.

When he's lying in bed, Harper asks, "So did you ask Mom if you can stay?"

"I don't think she'd like that," Collins says.

Harper sighs. "Fine," he says, and then on another topic entirely, "is Mom really my mom?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is Mom my mom like you're my dad? Is she my _real_ mom?" Harper explains, "There's a girl at school from Japan who lives with some white people. I thought maybe I was like that."

"No," Collins says. "Your mom is your real mom, just like I'm your real dad."

Harper protests, "But I don't _look_ like her."

"You do," Collins tells him. "You have her eyes." Harper pouts. "Harper… do you know where babies come from?"

"My kindergarten teacher said the store."

Collins chuckles. "You mean the _stork_."

Harper frowns. "I thought you bought 'em at the store."

"No. Listen, buddy… um… do you know what a penis is?"

"I'm _seven_, Daddy. Not two."

Collins nods, amused by his son. "Sorry. So, you know what girls have, right?"

"Kayla at school said it's like a boy's but all inside."

"Well Kayla at school is wrong."

Harper chuckles. His face breaks into a grin, and Collins understands that Kayla at school is a bit of a know-it-all, who Harper will enjoy showing up. "You have to promise me not to try this until you're a whole lot older," Collins begins, and Harper promises. "Okay, so what a girl has, is… it's kind of… well, it's like a tube." He can't believe he's doing this. He can't believe he's explaining sex to a seven-year-old, and he can't believe how awkward it is. "And older people who love each other and are ready for commitment," he continued, feeling like a hypocrite, "have sex. Which is when the penis is hard and the man puts it in the woman's vag—um, tube. Which is called a vagina." Collins is blushing so hard his face hurts.

Harper's expression distorts into one of disgust. "You'd hafta be pretty close to her," he says.

Collins nods. "Yep, you would," he admits. "Anyway, both partners move around a bit until the man ejaculates—do you know what ejaculation is?" Harper shakes his head, but he is watching, fascinated. "Okay, um, it's when sperm, which looks kind of like milk, comes out of the penis." He can't stop blushing. If only he could just say, this would be no problem, but something about the awkwardness makes him feel awkward in a way he hasn't since the age of uncontrollable hormones.

(23)

"Like in the bathroom?" Harper asks, excited to finally understand something.

"Well, not really. Same organ, but different stuff. Anyway, there are eggs inside of a woman's… well, it's near her tummy. When the egg and the sperm meet, they start multiplying, and that becomes a baby."

Harper frowns. He does not understand this. "Does she throw it up?" he asks.

"No, it goes out through the vagina."

"Oh." Harper considers, then asks, "So you put yours up Mom's… tube?"

"Her vagina," Collins says, and in his mind he can hear Roger laughing hysterically at him. "Yes. And nine months later, you were born."

"Oh," Harper says.

There's a knock at the door, then Ariel comes in. "Here." She thrusts something into Collins' hands. "May as well teach him all of it," she says, then heads out again. Collins looks.

He's holding a French porno magazine.

"Oh, jeez…" He flips through it and finds a picture of a whale being gutted, a close-up of an ample bosom, and finally an appropriate picture. Well, not appropriate for a seven-year-old, but it will give Harper the idea.

Collins can't believe he's doing this.

"Kid, that's a vagina."

_to be continued._

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And yes, it's true that French pornography magazines have news stories in them.


	4. Compromise

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

"I didn't think you'd be explaining _that_ for another few years yet," Ariel says, and I can see why she might be angry—but she facilitated the discussion.

I hand her the magazine. "Thanks for, uh, this. Why do you have pornos, anyway?"

She laughs. "Actually, I don't even use them. I just, I mean, I didn't want to leave them in my old bedroom. Didn't want my parents finding them."

I laugh, grin, then a thought occurs to me. "You mean you those when you were staying with me?"

She shrugs. "Yeah."

I'm not sure if I'm okay with this, but it's not like I'm unaccustomed to it. Roger has pornography. Mark has some shyly hidden "artful photography" magazines that he was too self-conscious to be aroused by. Roger's probably aren't too different from Ariel's, now that I thing about it.

She drinks from a can of soda, then begins folding a dish towel. She never did like coffee.

"This can't continue," she says, and I know she's waited a while to say it.

How long? Maybe since my last visit. Maybe before. My heart lurches. "Ari," I say, "Harper's my son--" but then I remember what he said, and what she heard, and wonder if that was the right approach. Is that it? Is she angry about what Harper said, about her not really being his mom?

"You don't act like it."

I do act like it. Don't I help him with his homework? Don't I tuck him in at night?

I say as much.

"Yeah, one day a year, Thomas," Ariel says. "One day a year you come here and he loves you 'cause he's seven and you're his daddy, and you never tell him to eat his vegetables or take a bath. But that's what parents _do_, Thomas. I'm sick of being compared to you and I'm sick of being treated like a mistress."

She looks away when she's finished saying this. I try not to be angry.

"How do I treat you like a mistress?" I ask, losing the struggle against anger. That's just not _fair_. I don't demean her, I don't have sex with her, and there's nothing wrong with my relationship with her.

"You keep me a secret, like you're ashamed of me! Of us! Do Mark and Roger even know you have a son?"

"Well, no," I admit. "But they don't need to know everything. Roger's a moron, and I want them to think, at least until they come out—"

"What if they're not gay?"

"They're gay." I'm confident about that.

"You're lying."

I sigh. I'm not lying. When Roger asked where I was going tonight, I told him I had a date. I just told him like it was a joke. Why not? Roger would have made the joke if I hadn't. He would've made Mark laugh, but then he would have asked for details. Now he'll leave me alone.

The problem with that is that I innately admit that I'm keeping Harper and Ariel a secret.

"Can we talk about a solution?" Ariel asks. Some of the iron has gone from her tone: she knows she overdid it. Good. I never know how to tell her she's overreacting without sounding like her teacher.

The thought bothers me.

I go over to the refrigerator. "Got anything in mind?" I'll probably be here for a while. Ariel doesn't have any beer, or any alcohol at all, so I grab a Coke.

"Maybe you could take Harper for a week or so."

_No. No, no, no, no. _I'm not bringing a curious child into an environment in which he might find the needle Roger keeps "just to remind himself" and though the vodka's in the freezer—which works now, since we do—there's Bombay Sapphire on the table, and the bottle's so pretty he'll be sure to drink.

"Or bring your friends here."

"Um."

"I'm having a party in a week. Just invite Mark and Roger. You can bring Maureen and Joanne, too, it you want."

Maureen. Christ, Harper just saw a _picture_ of a vagina, he doesn't need to see the real thing.

"Are they vegetarians? Whoever you're bringing?"

"I don't recall agreeing to bring anyone."

Ariel shrugs. She grabs the phone. "Then I'll invite them. What's the number? Never mind, I'm sure Joanne's listed. Jefferson, right?"

_Shit, this kid learns fast._ That's what I thought the first time she argued against me with quotes from my own lectures. Now I just think, _shit_. "All right, all right, I'll invite them."

"Great. Vegetarians?"

"Maureen is, except the week before her period." And I'm not inviting her, anyway. Christ. A party. Last time I brought Roger to a party full of people he didn't know, a staff party, he took some beers and sodas and all the chips and barricaded himself in the first television-furnished room he found. "Mark and Roger will eat anything. Especially Roger."

Now that she's got her way, Ariel is efficiently planning her party. "Chocolate dessert or lemon?"

"I don't know. Either. Don't plan your party around us." Anyway, she already knows what I'll eat, Roger probably won't stick around, and Mark will go off and mother hen Roger. Dammit. How am I going to tell them?

And of course I can't invite them. I have to tell them. _You're coming to a party on Saturday. Free food. _

_Cool. _

_Where? _

_One of my old students. From like five years ago._

Nonchalant, easy. I've got a reputation to uphold here.

Christ. Does she have to look _quite_ so victorious?

_to be continued!_

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	5. Bringing a Guest

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

"Who lives here?"

"Roger," Collins warns, meaning, _shut up and stop bothering me and put a sock in it before I do._

"How do you know this person?" Roger asks. "Who is he?"

"I told you, an old friend."

"How old?"

"Roger," Collins says again. His temper is beginning to fray.

"I'm just saying. How come we've never met this friend?" Roger asks. He smoothes down his shirt. Roger doesn't care what anyone says, he knows the sky blue compliments his hair and brings out his eyes. He knows it because Maureen told him, admittedly, but he trusts her. And tonight, Roger Davis knows that he looks absolutely dashing.

As they step into the building, there are a few occupants milling about: two teenage boys looking shady, an elderly woman returning from her grocery shopping, and a little girling playing hopscotch on the floor's tiles. Roger fails to lower his voice to account for the lack of traffic and wind, and he asks a bit too loudly, "You're not selling me into prostitution, are you?"

Collins spins to face him. "Roger!" he snaps. Then, lower, "No, I am not selling you into prostitution, I do not intend to eat you, we are not going to an orgy... and everything else you've suggested! We're visiting an old friend. She wanted to meet you, God only knows why." Well, God and Collins, a fact no professor ever should know. "Look, just... behave. Okay?"

Roger frowns. _Behave?_ This is no 'old friend', this was someone Collins wants to impress. Maybe a love interest? But no, Collins had said 'she', although he has seemed to perk up lately, so this has to be someone significant. Could she be a business opportunity? Roger wonders as he and Collins stepped into the elevator.

Roger pauses. Who needs to think in an honest, working elevator? He hasn't been in one of these in... well, since he began working for an actual company, Roger has seen more elevators, but really he is still a poor Boho boy who marvels at heat and good food and technology.

"Collins?"

"Yeah, Roger?" Collins replies. His voice is quiet, gentle, a sort of apology for snapping earlier.

"Um." Actually, he only opened his mouth because the quiet hum was beginning to bother him. "Are you okay?"

Collins looks at Roger. He never expected to hear that, but it makes him smile. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm okay."

The elevator dings.

"We're here."

They step out of the elevator. Roger gazes around at the badly lit corridor. The dimness on the bad carpet makes the hallway stretch forever, and occasional flashes off metal numbers make his eyes hurt. Collins pauses and knocks on one door.

"You came!"

The knock has barely finished but Collins disappears in a huge hug. Roger blinks: he always thought it was Collins' size that allowed him to hug so damned well, but the person hugging now was at least half a foot shorter than him and not as solidly built at all. Not a bad figure, Roger notices. Nice hips, and not bad breasts either.

"And you are... Mark?" she guesses.

"Roger," says Roger.

"Roger. Of course. If I heard the voice I would've known. Nice to meet you. I'm Ariel. Come in."

Roger doesn't need to be asked twice. "Thank you! This hallway is like going through withdrawal!"

Collins sighs. "I knew," Ariel tells him. "It's okay." She shuts and locks the door behind him. Collins' eyes search the room. He does not, will not find what he seeks, and she knows that. "He had a bad stomachache earlier. It's really too bad, he looked forward to this." So did Collins, she saw. "But, he has slept for a few hours. He should be up and well soon."

"I hope so."

Roger stands at the kitchen counter, hands jammed deep in his pockets. He looks thoroughly uncomfortable, and like he's struggling not to poke around.

"Roger, would you like a drink?" Ariel asks. "I'm afraid in the way of alcohol I only have wine, but I can offer you soda, juice, milk... chocolate milk..."

Roger smiles. Collins sighs. "Ari. You couldn't buy the boy a beer for the occasion?"

"_Which _boy?" Ariel retorts. She tosses a can of Diet Coke to Roger, who catches it one-handed and pops it open. "Hope you don't mind it's diet," she says.

"Not that you need it," Roger returns.

"Hm," Ariel snorts gently, an approving response. "Normal stuff chokes me," she says. "You ever feel like... maybe something's too thick, it'll close up your throat?"

Collins bites back a sigh. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. Ariel has learned a few things over the past years. She's playing Roger, and playing him damn well-- almost like she knew him. She was endearing herself to him with vulnerability, and since when was Ariel vulnerable? Collins had been inside her before he saw her vulnerable.

Roger nods. "I dated an asphyxophiliac once. You know what that is? She liked to be strangled. I couldn't stay with her after I found out, even though..."

"Even though you hate being alone," Ariel says, talking about him and talking about herself. Roger nods.

Before this infuriating bonding session can go any further, the oven dings.

"Sorry," Ariel says. "I expected you sooner. Do you mind?"

"No way," Roger says.

Collins clears his throat. "Ariel, do you think we could have a word in the next room? Please?" He is not asking.

Ariel nods. "Roger, if you desperately need a snack, you're welcome to anything in the 'fridge or cabinets." And she follows Collins into the bedroom.

"Party, huh?" he demands.

"Well, you always said being with Mark and Roger was like a party."

"You lied to me," Collins accuses.

Ariel nods, and she retorts, "I would do it again."

"Why? What, do you want... do you want to do Roger?"

"'Do Roger'," Ariel repeats, incredulous. "No, Thomas, I have no interest in having sex with your friends."

"Then what was all that about? Since when are you so open?"

"I need him to like me," Ariel says. "You want to know the truth, that's it. I want him to like me. I want him to want to come back here, so he can bring you back here."

"What?"

Ariel shakes her head. "Are you so thick? Come on, Professor, you have a son! A seven-year-old telling me he doesn't see how I can be his mother. I have raised him, do you have any idea how it feels that suddenly, he doesn't want to call me 'Mommy' anymore? That he won't tell me why he's having trouble at school? He is having trouble, Thomas, and he can't talk to me. He wants you. That hurts like a bitch, but if you think there's anything I will not do for that boy..." She shakes her head again. "Either you get it now or you don't."

He nods. "I get it," he says. "Now come on. Let's go have dinner before Roger eats all your fruit snacks."

Ariel grins. "You miss Harper," she says. "Why else would you love Roger like a seven-year-old?"

_to be continued!_

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	6. Revelations

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

"I thought you were a vegetarian?" Roger asks. "Not that I'm complaining," he says, and helps himself to a forkful of chilaquiles.

"I'm a vegetarian everywhere that isn't here," I say. "And you're not complaining, you're being an ass."

"You say that so often it's lost all meaning," Roger announces with a note of almost regret. He swallows, turns to Ariel and says, "I've heard these called 'the cure for the common hangover'. Yours make me want to get drunk more often."

I want to kick him. It's a compliment, from Roger it's a compliment, but does he have to come off as such an alkie? This is not the sort of person I want around my kid. Okay, I know Roger, but listening to him as a father... hell, what am I saying? It's new to me. It's new to look at anything compared to Harper.

No wonder Ariel was pissed. I half expect her to tell Roger to get the hell out of her apartment before her son-- our son woke up. Instead she says, "Thanks. Some recipes involve beer, but I stopped cooking with alcohol a while ago."

"Just don't like it?" Roger asks. "Or health reasons?"

Is Roger Davis actually sitting at the dinner table making polite conversation? Ariel gives me a dirty look and says, "Actually, I was pregnant."

I return her look. It's not as though we had any agreement that I would actually tell Roger about Harper. The agreement was that I would bring him for dinner--for a party, in fact. If anyone failed to keep up the bargain, it's Ariel. Roger sees the glares, lowers his head and eats. His cheeks flush bright red. "Hey, Rog," I say. "What were your parents like?"

"Normal," he says. He forks food into his mouth in a way that says his parents were most definitely _not_ normal. I want to ask him a follow-up question. It suddenly occurs to me that I've never heard a word about Roger's parents, except that one that I know is a complete lie. What would parents have to do to produce a Roger? I don't mean sex. (Jesus Christ. Penises and tubes. I never want to think about heterosexual intercourse ever again.) I mean, how exactly does one scar a child enough that he likes putting holes in his skin? And drugs? And that he would have nightmares, then spend the following day in unpredictable swings of temper? Did his parents beat him? Did they insult him, ritualistically deteriorating his sense of self-worth?

Or did they teach him to love someone who only came around once a year? Did they let him pin his emotions on something so unstable?

"So, if this isn't too personal, did you divorce, or... where's the father?"

"Oh, I'm still married," Ariel says.

Roger nods, but I can tell he doesn't quite understand yet. My heart has gone light with nerves. This, I don't need. Roger looks around. "Does your husband travel for business or something?" he asks.

"No, he's here," she says.

And poor little Roger looks around, glances at the bedroom, trying to find him. Then he glances at me, questioning-- do I know where this guy is? And his jaw drops. He stares at me, and notices the ring, and looks like he might pass out from pure shock.

That's when, from across the room, a high voice says, "Mommy, can I have some milk?" Harper pushes open the door and steps into the room. As soon as he spots me, he yelps, "Daddy!"

Roger hits the floor.

_to be continued!_


	7. Harper Collins and Roger Davis

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

When Roger wakes up, he stares at me, at Harper, then at Ariel. He shakes his head. He looks around, shakes his head, and says, "I'm dreaming," like that's the only possible answer.

Maybe discovering that your gay best friend has a secret wife and child isn't as amusing as it sounds. Roger doesn't seem to think so. He just keeps looking around and shaking his head, scaring Harper. The child, in turn, is clinging to his mother, and he whimpers horribly when she approaches Roger.

"Here." Ariel presents him with a glass, pokes his lips with a purple plastic straw, and instructs Roger, "Drink." It's all I can do not to pat his head and mock him as the purple loses its translucence and Roger sucks liquid.

"Hey, that's chocolate milk," he observes happily. "Thank you."

"Are you all right?" Ariel asks.

Roger nods. "I was just… surprised, that's all." Then he looks straight at me and says, "Why didn't you ever tell us?" accusatory and angry.

Harper is still clinging to his mother's leg. I call his name and motion for him to come over. He doesn't. "Come on, Harper. It's okay. He's my friend." Harper takes a tiny step forward, then promptly races over to me.

He presses his face against my shoulder. "Don't like him," he murmurs.

"Hey, Harper, you know that song you like on the radio?"

Roger groans. "Don't do this, Thomas," he murmurs. "Wait a minute. Harper Collins?" he asks, putting two and two together.

But it's too late to change the subject. Ariel stares and asks, half incredulous, "You're _that_ Roger Davis?"

Roger hides his face in his hands. Then he looks up and punches me in the shoulder. I punch him back. "So that's why you thought I wanted to sleep with him!" Ariel exclaims.

Roger scoffs and says, "No, it's 'cause he wants to sleep with me," his voice dripping sarcasm.

Harper frowns. "Do you have a penis, or a tube?" he asks Roger. "You don't look like a lady..."

"I'm a man," Roger says. "I have a penis."

"And he's a natural blond," I add.

"Tube?" Roger wants to know.

Ariel rolls his eyes. "It's what my brilliant husband calls a vagina." The word 'husband' makes Roger flinch, and the word 'vagina' makes Harper giggle. "Come on," she says, offering her hand to Roger, and between the two of them they haul him to his feet. "So. Harper, this is Daddy's friend Roger. He is _not_ a 'special friend'. Are you feeling better?" she asks.

"Yes!" Harper yelps.

"All right." She lifts him up and sets him down at the table, then grabs an extra plate. All the while, I'm filled with a sensation of utter futility. I can't think of a single thing to say to Harper or even to Roger. That doesn't seem to particularly matter, though, since Ariel has everything under control. She's got Roger looking at here with the respect I've only before seen him give to Elton John records, and me.

"How can a man have a special friend who's a man?" Harper asks once the meals has recommenced-- or, in his case, begun. "A man doesn't have a tube."

I'm floor. It seems that after explaining heterosexual sex to him, I should have no problem talking about homosexual sex. I prefer homosexual sex, I still do homosexual sex (or would've, if I had anyone to do it with). Even so, I lose the words. I look to Ariel to answer this one, but Roger has already opened his mouth.

"Actually, men do. Inside men's bottoms there's this thing called a prostate gland which if it's stimulated-- touched, can give a man as much pleasure as putting his penis in a woman's vagina." Roger explains this all, takes a bite of his dinner, then says, "I'm sorry, did I cross a line?"

"It's not exactly a part of your bottom," I say.

"Well it's a part of what leads up to the bottom," Roger says.

"So... you're not really a heterosexual, are you?" Ariel asks, then she glares at me. I don't understand. So what if Roger isn't a heterosexual? It didn't bother her about me. Then I remember that my reason for never bringing my friends over was that I thought Mark and Roger needed to think I was gay so they would feel comfortable coming out.

Roger shakes his head. "Only a little bit," he says. "Does that bother you?"

Ariel shakes her head. "No, of course not. It's just something Tom said that I _thought _you were straight."

"Oh, God, no! Actually I've been trying to win myself this one guy for... couple of weeks now."

"Who?" I ask, surprised. Why don't I know about this? I'm gay! Why didn't Roger ask me about this!? ...and then I realize, I'm not who I want to be. It's old, it's cliche, it's determined to happen, but sooner or later everyone realizes they aren't who they wish they were, who they thought they were. I'm not someone Roger respects.

Roger blushes. He scratches the back of his hand. "Oh. Um. N-nobody you'd know..."

"Is it Mark?" Ariel asks, and Roger's deepening blush more than answers her question.

"You're trying to date Mark?" I ask. "Does he know?"

"Wh-- stop it!" Roger yelps. "Talk about someone else's love life! Talk about pop culture or classics or sports!"

I sigh. "Ariel, you're a great cook," I say.

Roger wants Mark. How did I not know this?

_to be continued!_


	8. Careers Day

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

I don't know when she lit the candle. I want to say it was Roger who lit it, but somehow the idea of Roger and the idea of fire fit together like two pieces in a puzzle. There was a candle, and the four of us sitting around the table.

Ariel only had two nice wine glasses. In the interest of fairness, we decided no one could have a nice wine glass. Roger had a juice glass, I had a mug, and Ariel drank her wine from an uncapped sippy cup.

"You still use sippy cups?" Roger asked Ariel, meaning Harper.

"Use? No. Have? Yes."

Harper himself drank chocolate milk from the Birthday Cup, a plastic goblet with equally plastic "gems" glued to it.

Even now, less than a minute after the apartment door closed, I can't remember what was said. I remember laughter, and smiles, and I remember Ariel touching me a lot. She likes to touch when she's drunk, when she likes someone—I had forgotten. She likes to shove and ruffle hair and stroke hands.

Turns out my nineteen-year-old undergrad "special friend", now my twenty-seven-year-old not-ex wife, hasn't changed much.

We didn't even realize how much time had passed until Harper fell asleep in his chair. "Okay." I stood and lifted him into my arms. Harper stirred and murmured. "Let's get you to bed, baby."

"I 'on't wanna," he replied automatically. He wrapped his arms around my neck and held on tight.

He had woken more when we reached the bedroom. At least, he had woken enough to say, "Daddy?" in that tone I knew meant he wanted something.

I set his little body down on the bed, and he released his grip on my neck. "What's up, Harper?"

I pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. Harper wriggled and settled under the heaviness of the cloth. His eyes were drifting shut again.

"Next week my class is having Careers Day," he told me. "A bunch of parents are coming in and talking about what they do at work. Will you come talk to my class?"

I bit my lip, thinking about that. On the one hand, I wanted to go into Harper's school and let him show me off and be proud of me. On the other hand ("You mean the one with different fingers?" I always asked when Mark or Roger used that expression), Ariel put in the hours raising Harper. "Why don't you ask your mom?" I suggested.

Harper frowned. "Mom came in last year, and she did a unit on sign language in class last semester. She said it's okay if you come in for Careers Day."

I nodded. "I'll be there."

"It's on Thursday."

"Okay."

"_Don't forget!_"

"I won't," I promised. I kissed his forehead. "Go to sleep."

I had my fingers on the light switch when Harper yelped. "Daddy!" he whimpered. "You have to put on my other light."

I asked him, "Which other light?"

Harper pointed. I turned on a little nightlight before turning off the main light.

Roger and Ariel had cleared the table, and he had his jacket on. We said our goodbyes; Roger went to the bathroom, I think to give me and Ariel time alone. "You coming to Career Day?" she asked me, straight off.

I nodded.

Ariel said, "Listen, you have to be there first thing. Maybe you could walk Harper to school that day?"

"Yeah." I smiled. I liked that idea. I could walk him in to school, act like a normal parent. "If it's okay with you, I wouldn't mind being around here a little more often."

She smiled. "That's okay. You know, Harper's school lets out at three but I can't pick him up until five-thirty so he goes to an after-school program. If you want to pick him up a couple days a week, that'd be okay."

It was the best I'd felt in a long time.

Ariel hugged us both and said goodbye, and it genuinely hurt when she shut the door even though it wasn't rude. And now here we are in the elevator. I'm barely thinking of Roger. I'm thinking about Careers Day and how I can be free from three to five-thirty every day, how maybe it wouldn't hurt to settle down a little.

A snuffle and a sigh draw my attention to the present. Roger rests his head on my shoulder.

I laugh. "People are gonna think we're dating."

"Okay," Roger murmurs, and I laugh again.

"So," I say, "what's this about Mark?"

Roger shrugs. "Gotta move on," he says. I guess he's over Mimi. I guess he doesn't think about her death all the time anymore, the same way I don't spend my every moment thinking—this time last year, Angel and I. "Harper's a sweet kid."

"I know," I say. I wish I really did, but…

"Why didn't you tell us?"

I shake my head. Because I was afraid of how you would see me, afraid of how they would see you, because I wasn't ready to be responsible. It was part of the deal. When Ariel came into my classroom that day, at first I was thrilled by a visit from my girlfriend. She had been crying, but she was calm then. She told me she was pregnant, and that she wanted to keep the baby.

_You won't have to do anything. I'll raise him. _

_Him? _

_It doesn't feel like a daughter…_

"I dunno, man."

Roger nods. "Okay," he says.

Something in the way he says it seems universally applicable.

Okay.

_THE END!_

...I finished it!! Yay!

Review? Please?


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